


Despite Better Judgement

by skyhealer



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Captivity, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyhealer/pseuds/skyhealer
Summary: He could just leave. He knew that. It wasn’t like he owed the Witcher anything, not anymore. He could finish his drink and leave.And yet…Months after the events on the Mountain, Jaskier overhears of a particular Witcher in trouble.His particular Witcher as it happens. And even still upset and angry with the man, Jaskier finds he can't justleave
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 460





	Despite Better Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the longest fic I've ever written and it took me an embarrassing amount of time to write. Thanks to [GoblinRuler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinRuler/pseuds/GoblinRuler) and [Garden](https://gardenostalgic.tumblr.com/) for their patience, encouragement and spell checking skills!

Jaskier sat at the bar nursing an ale after his latest lackluster performance (honestly, they had all been a little lackluster in the months since Ger- since _the Witcher_ and he had parted ways on that thrice damned mountain top). Mentally debating between spending the coin to rent a room and sleep in a real bed versus saving what little coin he actually had and finding somewhere to camp- _again_ \- he wasn’t paying too much attention to the room around him. 

Laughter, sudden and loud, startled Jaskier out of his thoughts. Turning slightly he saw a group of men sitting at a nearby table, still chuckling. They were locals, he guessed, judging by the lack of reaction from anyone else in the place, and he was turning back to the bar when one spoke, grabbing his attention again. 

“That damned Witcher won’t be killin’ no one no more,” Jaskier froze at the words, his fool heart racing. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm it. There were other Witchers he knew, surely it couldn’t be-

“White wolf’s not gon’ be huntin’ ‘round here again that’s for damn sure,” another man at the table said. Jaskier’s hand tightened on his mug.  _ Fuck _ . 

“Ol’ Kurt’s got him strung up real good,” the man who had spoken first chuckled. “Hear he’s makin’ a tidy sum too. Chargin’ folks to hold the swords, throw a stone at the mutant and such.”

The men laughed again, covering Jaskier’s soft curse. He could just leave. He knew that. It wasn’t like he owed the Witcher anything, not anymore. He could finish his drink and leave, be at least two towns away when Geralt of fucking Rivia inevitably managed to get free. 

And yet…

And yet these men were talking about Geralt being deliberately hurt by others. Were _laughing_ about it even. As mad and hurt as Jaskier was even now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he just walked away. Not again. 

Taking a quick gulp of ale, Jaskier turned fully in his chair towards the table. “Gentlemen,” he started, voice dripping with as much charm as Geralt dripped viscera after a hunt. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear. Your friend managed to catch himself a Witcher?”

The men turned to him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Yeah, and what’s it to ya,  _ bard _ ?” The first man Jaskier had heard asked, emphasizing the word bard like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Jaskier spread his arms, shrugging. “Call it a...professional curiosity.” The men stared at him blankly and he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Practically every bard on the continent knows the ballads of the Witcher known as the White Wolf.” Jaskier was amazed he didn’t sound more smug about that, but now was not the time or place to let on that _he_ was the one who wrote the ballads. “I admit I’ve always been curious to see the real thing.” He raised his mug to his lips before adding: “I’m always a fan of helping...local business men as well.” Winking, he took a drink of ale and watched the men over the rim of his mug as they thought.

A long moment passed in silence as the men seemed to consider his words. Finally a man who Jaskier hadn’t heard speak shrugged. “Ol’s Kurt lives ‘bout a mile or two up the main road past the stables. When ya get to the giant elm, turn on the path to the left and it’ll be just over the hill.”

Jaskier saluted them with his drink. “Much obliged,” he said, setting the empty mug down on the bar along with a few coins before leaning down and picking up his lute case and pack from the floor at his feet and heading towards the door.

“Careful boy,” the man who’d given him the directions called before he could exit. “Don’t let that curiosity of yours take you too close. Wild animal’s still a wild animal even chained up.”

The bard threw a cheery smile over his shoulder at the table. “I know how to handle my wild animals,” he responded as he pushed open the door and stepped into the midafternoon sunlight. “Especially that one,” he muttered to himself, letting the smile drop as the door closed behind him.

Letting out a deep breath, Jaskier adjusted his pack and lute on his shoulders and headed towards the stables and the road beyond. If he was quick and just a little lucky, he could get there before this “Ol’ Kurt” closed down for the day and with enough daylight left to really get a feel for the lay of the land before finding somewhere to hide until after nightfall, which would provide the cover needed to get Geralt out of this mess.

He hummed to himself as he walked. No real song, just whatever pleasing melody came to mind while passing the time. After almost an hour of brisk walking, Jaskier finally came upon what had to be the large elm (it was the only large tree close to the road). “Mile or two my ass,” he grumbled to himself as he approached it. If he had to guess it was more like three or four miles.

Pausing under the tree, he took a quick drink from the waterskin hanging off his pack. Looking to the left of the road, he spotted the path mentioned. It did lead up a bit of a steep hill but the path looked well worn. He could also see chimney smoke not far off from where the hill cut off his vision.

Less than half an hour later, he arrived at the farm. A small, clearly hand made sign pointed around back and he followed to the barn. He was unsurprised, but disappointed to find a small crowd of people there. Hatred, fear and mistrust of Witchers still ran deep in so many places.

The barn doors were opened wide, and on either side tables had been put out, with someone sitting behind each of them. On the table to the right of the doors, spread out so each article could be seen was a very familiar set of armor and pack. The pack had been emptied and potion bottles sat near it in little rows. Laid out on the left table, two swords glinted in the sinking sun. The silver shone brighter from the far side of the table. Bundled at one end of the swords was a small pile of daggers in their sheaths. 

When Jaskier looked up from the swords, the man at the table caught his eye and grinned. “Just a couple of coins and ya could hold a real Witcher’s swords.”

“I’m not even sure I could lift them,” Jaskier joked, wandering over to the table where Geralt’s gear was spread out. He ran a finger tip over the studded armor, finding old marks with ease and wondering at some new ones. He looked up to see the young man behind this table preoccupied flirting with a young woman and quickly palmed one of the general healing potion bottles. He fully intended to get as much of Geralt’s belongings back as possible that night, but he wanted one on hand, just in case. After tucking the bottle away safely, Jaskier headed inside.

The first thing he noticed upon entering the surprisingly well lit barn was the almost overwhelming smell of herbs and smoke. Just inside the door was another table, burning brightly on one end was a small brazier, which was no doubt the source of the smell. The rest of the table, Jaskier was horrified to note, was covered with fist size and larger stones, and it looked like there had been more at one point. Dragging his gaze from the disturbing display in front of him, he caught sight of the figure at the back of the barn and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping in shock and no small amount of horror. 

Geralt was on his knees, bound hands stretched above his head. The manacles on each wrist (and really, where the _fuck_ did these guys get _manacles_ anyway) were connected by a short chain which a rope had been tied to and then attached to a beam in the rafters. His ankles were bound in a similar fashion, attached to the back wall. Around his neck, rope too short to allow him to stand in his current position, was an iron collar.There was a tear in his shirt, and Jaskier noted it was in a spot where his armor was vulnerable, though he couldn’t make out anything underneath. Almost every inch of exposed skin though was covered in bruises. The worst of which was a rich, angry purple black bruise at his right temple, visible even above the blindfold. 

And wasn’t that another punch in the gut. Not only had they bound Geralt hand and foot, literally, but they had blindfolded and gagged him as well. Jaskier looked back at the brazier, filling the room with smells that were almost overwhelming to his human nose. He wondered if it was a coincidence or if they knew about a Witcher’s enhanced sense of smell and this was another way they came up with to hurt Geralt.

As Jaskier was looking back at Geralt, he finally noticed the man standing behind the table of rocks. By the greying at his temples, and the receding hairline, Jaskier guessed this must be the Ol’ Kurt he’d heard mentioned at the bar. The one who had captured Geralt in the first place.

“First time seein’ a real life monster boy?” The man asked, voice a deep rumble.

The bard smiled awkwardly. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything more horrifying in my life,” he responded. From the corner of his eye, he could swear he saw Geralt’s head jerk up slightly at the sound of his voice.

Ol’ Kurt gestured to the table between them. “Interested in purchasin’ a rock o’ your very own to throw at the beast? My youngest, Jhoshua, can even scribe your name on it, if ya’d like.”

“As...tempting as that may be, unfortunately my coin purse is far too light as it is.” Jaskier told him, affecting an apologetic tone. “I just came to see for myself the famous White Wolf.”

The man didn’t seem offended at Jaskier’s words.He let out a small chuckle. “Life of a travelin’ bard, I get it.It’s not easy. That’s why I made my youngest come back home. I told him, I said come on home boy, ain’t no good money to be made singin’, best you come home and work a real job.” Jaskier felt his eye twitch. “Anyway, you’re in luck. An earlier patron o’ mine wasn’t able to make use of his purchase ‘fore his wife come to drag him off home. Told me to let someone else have fun in his place. So ya can go ahead and pick yourself a stone on him.”

Jaskier smiled politely and turned to the table with a mumbled thanks. Times like this, he really wished there were a stronger word than fuck he could use. 

Picking up a smaller rock, but not one so small as to be suspicious, he tested the weight in his hand. It was heavier than the knives he was used to throwing (thank you misspent childhood) but he thought he could still manage to throw it with some degree of accuracy.

Taking a deep breath, he squared off and took aim. The rock flew across the barn.

And hit the back wall with a solid thud, just a few inches to the side of Geralt’s ribs.

Jaskier let out the breath he’d been holding. That was a lot closer than he’d been trying for, but it still missed as intended. 

“Bad luck kid,” Ol’ Kurt commented as Jaskier turned back to him.

“I guess I’m better at hitting notes than I am at hitting actual targets,” he joked. 

The older man didn’t seem bothered by Jaskier’s lack of throwing skill. “Been lettin’ folks have a second chance at throwin’, free o’ charge, if they’re willin’ to go get the stone back.”

Biting his lip, Jaskier thought this over. On one hand, he _really_ did not want to have to throw (and hopefully miss) again. But on the other hand if he went to retrieve the stone, he could get close to Geralt. Could let the Witcher know he was going to get him out of this.

The desire to offer what comfort he could quickly won out and he nodded at the older man. Cautiously he made his way towards the back of the barn. He wondered idly if Geralt could already hear how fast his heart was beating. Finally he stepped up close to the Witcher. Close enough to touch if he dared. But he didn’t. Couldn’t if he wanted to keep avoiding suspicion from Ol’ Kurt, who he could feel was still watching him (because really, what else did he have to watch). Instead, he crouched and reached out for the rock.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” he whispered softly, hand closing around the rock. “Just hang on.”

Geralt’s entire body _jerked_ at Jaskier’s words, startling the bard into dropping the rock. Seizing the opportunity to not have to pick the damned thing again, he scrambled backwards as if in fear of the Witcher.

Really, it was a good thing humans didn’t have the same sense of smell as Witchers.

  
Laughter greeted him when he got back to the table. “He can’t hurt ya boy.” Ol’ Kurt chuckled. “At least not while we got the beast muzzled.”

Jaskier huffed and straightened his doublet. “Yes well, you’ll forgive me if I’ve no wish to test a caged wolf’s patience.” Glancing out the barn doors, he realized the sun was starting to set, and that he was the only visitor to the wretched barn left. “And now I really should be going if I’m to find a place to camp before full dark.”

With a wave, Jaskier headed outside. Pausing, he looked around, trying to figure out where best to go to set up his camp til nightfall.

The young man behind the table with Geralt’s armor and gear caught his eye. “If you’re lookin’ for somewhere safe to camp, there’s a clearin’ not too far in those woods,” he pointed to a nearby patch of trees. A worn, dirt path led the way from the farm between two of the trees. “Just follow the path, can’t miss it.”

Jaskier eyed the woods thoughtfully. They were close by and provided decent cover. Perfect. He nodded his thanks to the man and headed in the direction indicated. 

The clearing was exactly where the young man had said it would be. Jaskier was delighted to note it already had a small fire pit dug, with stumps placed around it in a loose circle. Gathering some wood, he lit a small fire. Nothing too large, but one that should just about last him until the cover of full dark. That done, he settled on one of the stumps, pulling his lute forward to play absentmindedly while he waited. 

When full dark finally came and the fire had burned down to embers, Jaskier stood and stretched. Slipping his lute and pack off, he looked around the clearing before sighing and hooking them both on a nearby tree branch. He didn’t really want to leave them, but knew they would likely just get in the way. Looking down at himself, Jaskier contemplated his doublet. It was a little tighter than he would have liked for this, but it was in a darker color that would show less in the night than the looser cream chemise he wore under it, so he decided to leave it. 

Moving as quickly and as quietly as he could by the light of the half moon, he slipped through the trees along the path back to the farm. When he reached the barn, he noticed that while the tables that had held Geralt’s possessions were still there, they were empty now. No doubt moved for safe keeping, but Jaskier would deal with that later. The barn doors themselves were closed but not locked, and Jaskier wasted no time slipping inside. 

Pausing just on the threshold, the bard wrinkled his nose as he noticed the damn brazier was _still_ burning. It was however, giving off just enough of a glow to see by. While Jaskier could have lived without the smell, he was grateful not to have to work in complete darkness.

Side stepping the table with the fucking rocks- which he desperately wanted to do something dramatic to (like set on fire or knock over) but now was decidedly  _ not the time _ \- he hurried to the slumped figure still at the back of the barn. 

Crouching in front of the Witcher, Jaskier reaches out to remove the blindfold. As soon as the bard’s hand brushed the edge of the cloth, Geralt flinched away and Jaskier instinctively yanked his hand back. 

“Fuck,” he mouthed soundlessly. That was  _ definitely  _ not the smartest first move. Slowly, he reached out again. “Easy, it’s just me,” he said softly. This time when he hand made contact, Geralt didn’t move. He almost seemed frozen. “It’s just me.” Jaskier repeated sliding the blindfold up and off. Those familiar and famous gold eyes widened in what Jaskier could only assume was shock as they adjusted and met his. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Jaskier continued, still quiet as he reached behind Geralt’s head to untie the gag. “Just hang on. Everything’s going to be fine.” The knot finally gave and the gag fell away. 

“ _ Jaskier _ ?” Geralt rasped, voice even rougher than usual but the bard thought he could make out a trace of incredulity, confusion and maybe- just maybe- hope in the Witcher’s tone. 

“Myself yes.” A quick humorless grin flashed. “I guess life couldn’t give you that one blessing after all,” he murmured softly, shifting his position to get a better angle to start on the manacles on Geralt’s wrists. 

Focused as he was on the cuffs, Jaskier missed the slight wince and flash of regret that crossed the Witcher’s face. “Fuck,” Geralt swore quietly but with feeling and Jaskier did smile at the  _ very  _ familiar expletive. Gods help him he’d almost  _ missed  _ hearing it.

“Fuck,” Geralt swore again as Jaskier located the locking mechanism and pulled out a pick to begin undoing it. “Jaskier I-“

“So how did this happen anyway?” Jaskier asked in a rush, cutting Geralt off. He suddenly didn’t want to hear whatever he’d been about to say. Not yet at least. At a slower pace, he continued, “I mean it’s not like you to be caught off guard. And by a bunch of small town farmers at that.” As he spoke, the cuff gave and he turned his attention to the other.

Geralt lowered his freed arm slowly, wincing as no doubt sore muscles protested movement after being still and in the same position for too long. “Mmm,” he grunted, curling the arm around his midsection. “Kikimora nest. Bigger than expected.” The other cuff came free and the tear in his shirt Jaskier had noticed earlier shifted as Geralt lowered his arm. Beneath the tear, the bard could see the edge of a gash that looked deep, as well as swollen and angry.

“Shit! That looks bad. Hang on a second…” Jaskier fumbled for the potion he’d taken from the table. “Here,” he uncorked the vial and offered it to the other man. “It’s not one of your special kikimora ones, just a general healing aid, but it should help. At least until we can find where they stashed your stuff.”

Geralt took the bottle with, Jaskier’s heart clenched to notice, care _not_ to let their fingers touch. He raised the tiny bottle to his mouth and downed it in a single swallow. Then he had to swallow again, the band on iron still around his neck restricting him. 

Jaskier was struck with annoyance at himself for not removing the damn thing first. 

“I’m gonna move behind you to get that fucking collar off. Don’t like, headbutt me or fall over or anything.” The Witcher didn’t respond, just stared at the bard with an unreadable expression. Jaskier decided to take his silence as agreement and rose, moving so he was behind the other man. “Can you tilt your head forward so I can get at the lock?” He asked and was somewhat surprised when Geralt obliged without argument. Brushing the long strands of white hair out of the way, and pointedly ignoring how they were still as soft and silken as he remembered, Jaskier frowned down at the lock, studying it in the weak light. 

“Tack room,” Geralt said as Jaskier was starting to open the lock, startling him into dropping the pick in his hand. 

“What?” He asked, bending down to pick up the dropped tool. 

The Witcher hummed. “My gear. The first night, I heard the older man you spoke with earlier tell someone to store the gear there. So, tack room.”

“Well then,” Jaskier paused, making a soft noise of triumph as the lock came undone and he could take the stupid fucking collar off. As much as he wanted to throw the damn thing as far as it could go, the noise it would make could draw attention, which he decidedly did not want. So instead he lifted it up and off, setting it on the ground next to him quietly. “Well then, we’ll get these last couple locks open, then we can get your stuff and get the fuck out of here.”

Geralt hummed again, one hand coming up to rub gently at his throat, where Jaskier could see the metal had left a fucking mark on the man’s neck. 

Jaskier made quick work of the ankle cuffs, the locks being similar to the ones that had been on Geralt’s wrist and not at a difficult angle like the others had been. Soon all the locks were undone and the bard stood again, coming back around and offering the Witcher a hand up.

He almost fell on his ass when the man took it and used it to haul himself to his feet, but managed to steady himself against the tug, and thankfully Geralt didn’t comment on it. 

“Right,” Jaskier blurted, breaking the awkward silence that had followed. “Tack room.We should get your stuff and get out of this fucking place.”

Jaskier started to head towards where he was guessing the tack room was, but was stopped by Geralt gently grabbing his arm. “Jaskier,” he started, and then paused, swearing softly. “Fuck, Jaskier I- what I said. The mountain. I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I’m- I’m sorry.”

“Are you now?” The bard asked softly, voice carefully neutral.

Geralt nodded. “You don’t- I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know that I am. Sorry.” His hand dropped from Jaskier’s arm. “And I’m grateful. For. For all of this.” He paused again, “You- you’ve always been a good friend. Even when I haven’t.”

The bard studied his companion. Geralt was still avoiding looking at him, in a way he never had before, and his shoulders were slumped almost imperceptibly. It could have been from his injuries, butr Jaskier had seen himinjured many times and this...this wasn’t that. This almost felt like a defeated pose. Like  _ Geralt _ felt defeated.

After another long moment, Jaskier sighed, letting go of his anger along with it. “If you ever do anything like that again, I _will_ run you through with your own sword, and I promise you, no one will ever find the body.” 

Startled golden eyes finally rose to meet his. “Jaskier…” Geralt breathed his name, sounding shocked and disbelieving and almost  _ hopeful _ .

Snorting softly, Jaskier shook his head fondly. “Geralt,” he began and then paused as he realized with a start this was the first he’d said the other man’s name, almost since the mountain. His heart did a funny thing at that, but he ignored it and continued. “The day we met you punched me in the gut, hard I might add, and I _still_ followed you for years.Did you really think I _wouldn’t_ forgive you?” He shook his head again and sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, there are still things we need to talk about. And will likely need to continue to talk about later, but I am _not_ discussing therm in this fucking gods fosaken barn. So, might I suggest we go get your stuff and _leave_?”

Geralt nodded and together they silently made their way to the tack room. Once inside the moonlight from the small window allowed them to quickly find Geralt’s possessions under an old horse blanket. While Geralt pulled his gear and armor back into order, Jaskier explored the small room (and pretended not to watch the other man, especially when he changed shirts). Peeking into chests and around shelves, he grinned when he saw the small, ordinary box. Unassuming, except for the fact that it alone had a lock. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Geralt was still occupied with his possessions. Pulling out his lockpicks he turned back to the box and made quick work of the lock. Inside was an equally unassuming pouch. His grin sharpened when, picking it up he heard a telltale clink, and he quickly slipped the pouch into his doublet.

Turning back to his companion, Jaskier watched the other man stand and hook his bags over one shoulder, armor and swords already buckled back in place. “All ready then?”

“Mmm,” the other man responded, nodding. The bard snorted softly at the familiar response. Always so eloquent. 

“Excellent,” he headed back towards the door. “Let’s go then, before I decide I really do want to burn this fucking barn down. Not to mention I left my lute hanging on a tree and I’d like to get back to it before some woodland creature decides it wants to try it’s hand at being a bard and makes off with it.”

The Witcher huffed a laugh, but didn’t comment and together they made their way out of the damned barn and into the woods. When they reached the clearing, Jaskier made straight for the tree he’d hung his things on, while Geralt went over to the remnants of the fire. 

Breathing a sigh of relief when he saw his things were still safe and in one piece right where he’d left them, Jaskier slung his pack over his back and cradled his lute to his chest. Turning back to where Geralt had rekindled the fire and was slowly growing it, he shifted his grip so he could press his cheek to the neck of the case. Rubbing one hand along the instrument, he whispered compliments and promises to never leave his beautiful lute alone like that again unless he absolutely had to. 

Geralt rolled his eyes at him as the bard joined him at the fire, but he ignored it. It’s not like the Witcher had any room to judge. He talked to his horse. 

“Oh gods!” Jaskier gasped out, as the realization hit him. “ _ Roach _ ! Are we going to have to find a way to sneak her out of town or intimidate the townsfolk into letting her go? Maybe if you glower enough…” he stopped when he noticed Geralt shaking his head.

“No. She’s in Kaer Morhen. Ciri didn’t like me leaving. Thought having Roach might help.”

Jaskier almost dropped his lute in shock. “Ciri? _Princess Cirilla_?!” Somehow he managed to keep his voice below a screech. “You _found_ her? She’s alive? She’s safe?”

Staring at him, the bard could see confusion in the Witcher’s eyes but he nodded and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief. “You...know her?” Geralt asked.

“You could say that,” he replied, shaking his head in disbelief. Ciri was blessedly  _ alive _ _.  _ “I played at the cub’s birthday feast every year for at least a decade.” Geralt’s eyebrows rose and it was Jaskier’s turn to roll his eyes. “An invitation from Calanthe was less a polite request and more of a firm command with an unspoken ‘or else’ implied at the end.” He smiled fondly. “Besides I admit I was...curious. To see how this child who was part yours would grow up.”

Geralt hummed, then: “I’m glad. That she had you as a friend. That you were there for her when I couldn’t be...wouldn’t be.”

Jaskier beamed at him (the Witcher _could_ use his words! He was so proud) but then frowned. “Wait. If you found her then why are you _here_ and not with her?”

A grimace pulled at the corner of the other man’s mouth. “Needed supplies for a longer stay at the keep. Needed coin for those supplies.” He sighed, frowning fully now. “I figured the alderman was going to cheat me. Likely wouldn’t pay me at all now without any proof I was successful.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” Jaskier reached one hand into his doublet and pulled the pouch he’d taken from the locked box. “Idiot was keeping this in the fucking barn. Those bastards owe you a hell of a lot more,” he almost said _like their lives_ but didn’t. He knew Geralt didn’t actually like killing people. “But I figured this was at least a start.”

Opening the pouch Geralt stared at the gold coins inside. For a long moment all he did was stare. When he turned his gaze on Jaskier, the bard braced himself for any number of comments or questions. Maybe even a refusal (Witchers don’t take charity  _ bard _ ), and was unprepared when what Geralt finally said was, “ _ thank you _ ,” in a soft but heartfelt tone.

At a loss for words (for possibly the first time in his life) Jaskier could only stare at the other man. When he eventually found his words again and stopped simply staring, he found his usual eloquence was still missing. “I- well like I said- I mean- well they definitely owe you more but- and this was right there so it seemed fitting so…” he trailed off when he realized he was babbling.

Geralt was shaking his head again. “Not just for this,” he said, indicating the pouch in his hand. “But for today. And…for everything else before. Thank you.” The Witcher paused again, before taking a deep breath. “I know- you said you forgive me. Which is more than I had hoped. And this may be asking too much too soon but. Would you...like to come with? To Kaer Morhen? And then…after?”

Doing nothing to stop it, Jaskier felt himself start to grin brightly. “You know you’ll never be rid of me this time, right?” At Geralt’s answering nod, his grin only grew. “Well then. Off to Kaer Morhen it is!”


End file.
